There was a kind of charming innocence to Sally Rapehoax and her wild tales of repeated violation. It was the mid-1990s, a decade defined by the supposedly deep and emotionally esoteric secret lives of women. Tori Amos and the Lilith Fair exemplified this tone; the female identity needed to be something markedly different and incomprehensible to men.
Sally’s claims of rape were inoffensive because there was no perpetrator named; the claim was entirely about Sally and her own identity. To believe Sally meant that she was a victim saddled with a sexuality so strong that it engendered an overwhelming animalistic lust in men who were willing to risk their lives to have her by any means necessary; to believe Sally was a liar meant she was a deeply troubled girl with a wild imagination. Either way, you’re going to feel sympathetic to Sally, so mission accomplished. This kind of rape accusation carried with it the wistful innocence of Jack Horner shooting naughty movies on film- you know it’s wrong, but it’s not really hurting anyone either.
We were somewhere around our second bottle of wine when I made the startling realization that Fake Winehouse’s unexpected British accent had faded into something typical and American. When I had picked her up that night for drinks at The Reptile Zoo, I told her I wasn’t expecting a British accent. She asked what I was expecting, and I didn’t have a good answer. You exchange a few messages with a girl on OKCupid and agree to meet for drinks; what is there to expect?
But it was when the accent disappeared entirely that I realized the true depth of the situation. I had cut right to the heart of it and was sitting on the main nerve; Fake Winehouse was a fucking lunatic. And I’m a stupid motherfucker who likes that kind of thing. Yeah… that’s me, the normal girls are boring type; I want the curve ball. I want the crazy girl; I want the hyper-emotional; I want the bizarre.
So of course the unexpected accent disappearing entirely from a girl who wonders why I think it’s funny that she’s “never been to Europe” is right up my alley. When the bill comes, I ask Winehouse how much she’s gonna throw in and she tells me that she didn’t bring any money. This was very funny to her. The accent was back. Son of a bitch. Who is this girl?
Kubrick’s stunning “2001: A Space Odyssey,” made at the tail-end of the 1960s, carries with it a presumption that is often taken for granted: the evolution of human nature is possible to guide, and can be commanded at will. While Kubrick is correct in the assertion that Western culture has had its share of monolithic moments, I can quite clearly imagine a shrieking monolith standing at the gates of the All Saints’ Church, this assertion is inseparably tied to the idea that these moments were architectured by an inherent intellectual superiority and are of unquestionable morality.
When apes find the first Monolith, they gain the ability to use tools; tools build civilizations, however unrefined those civilizations may initially be. Thousands of years later, “2001” sits at the dawn of the space-age and this kind of growth is a thing of beauty. The human race took from their surroundings what was needed and made of it something more. They used whatever means necessary; in this regard, the sum is infinitely greater than cost of the parts.